Thunder on the Right by Mary Stewart

Author:Mary Stewart
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2011-02-16T13:00:00+00:00

15

The Bartered Bride

The farm cottage was silent, shut, and apparently deserted, but as Stephen and Jennifer approached it across the weedy cobbles they saw a mule standing tethered outside one of the sheds. Its coat was dark with sweat, the hair on its belly tagged with points of damp.

Stephen stopped, and shot out a hand to grip Jennifer’s arm.

He said, under his breath: ‘Damn and blast. That means he’s come back. Jenny, for God’s sake will you get away out of this? Quickly!’

But it was too late. A man had already emerged from one of the ramshackle buildings, and was making for them, bucket in hand. It was the big dark man of last night’s adventure; Pierre Bussac, mountaineer and … murderer? Jennifer, rooted to the cobbles where she had played the listener last night, could only hope, through her dismay, that the Frenchman would not realize who she was.

The sunlight, cut across by a threatening shape of cloud, fell slanting straight into his eyes, so that, dazzled for a moment as he emerged from the dark byre, he took three or four steps forward before he saw them. He paused at sight of them, scowling uncertainly at Stephen, who had moved in front of Jennifer.

‘What the devil do you want?’ he asked roughly.

Stephen said: ‘You’re Pierre Bussac?’

There was no direct reply to this, but merely a roughly dismissive, ‘You’re wasting your time,’ in the thick Southern accent that had baffled Jennifer the night before. She realized with relief that the man had taken Stephen to be a tourist seeking his professional help as a guide. He added sourly: ‘I’m not taking any more up this summer. Didn’t they tell you that in the village?’

And at that he turned, hunching one shoulder as if in dismissal. But his movement had brought him within sight of Jennifer, hugging her obscurity behind Stephen’s back. He glanced, stared, his black suspicious gaze burning swiftly over her, taking in the pale-gold cap of hair, the tan-golden skin, the full-skirted frock of green cotton that she wore.…

The black eyes stared, widened. There was a clang as the bucket slipped from his unheeding fingers and struck the ground, tilting and overturning with an almost slow-motion unreality. He made no move to stop it. The dull clank of its fall brought two dogs running, but they stopped their rush as the thick stream of milk spread on the cobbles, and stayed behind their master, bristling a little and eyeing the strangers with snarling suspicion.

Bussac knew who she was; that much was obvious. And mixed with the anger in his eyes was unmistakably a shade of fear. His glance wavered, shifted, dropped, and then – irresistibly – he looked back at the closed cottage door.

But only momentarily. The faint clinking sound of the fallen bucket, as it rolled in an arc at his feet, seemed to recall him with a jerk. He stooped to pick it up, swore viciously at his dogs, and then turned back to Jennifer and Stephen with his self-command apparently unimpaired.

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